


Five Times Sherlock Reads John's Mind (+1 he doesn't have to)

by wendymarlowe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Halloween, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-07-27 20:08:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16226420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymarlowe/pseuds/wendymarlowe
Summary: Sherlock's powers of deduction allow him to practically read John's mind. Except when they don't.(Halloween 5+1 fic)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's October, so here's a Halloween-based 5+1 :-) Native Brits, let me know if I'm using "fancy dress" correctly please? "Costume" can be used a few different ways here in the US and I'm not sure if the terms are fully interchangeable.

1

John’s clinic had an annual fancy dress party for Halloween, which--judging from the man’s reluctance to go each year--was one of the most boring gatherings on the face of the earth. Why he’d invite Sherlock along was beyond imagining, but sitting at home while John was elsewhere sounded worse. Sherlock went. Thirty minutes in, he and John were standing side-by-side near the punch bowl and Sherlock was regretting his decision.

“Stop glowering,” John hissed. “You agreed.”

“That was before I knew I’d be subjected to this horrible excuse for music,” Sherlock retorted. The punch was cloyingly terrible, too. Maybe it had e. coli in it. That would at least make for a point to the party beyond all the horrid fancy dress outfits and the fake “horror” decorations and awkward small talk that everyone was planning to forget the moment they stepped out the door to go home.

John looked adorably absurd in his blood-stained lab coat and holding an oversized light-up plastic Erlenmeyer flask, but he’d forbade Sherlock to speak a word about it before he’d even put the thing on. He’d also refused Sherlock’s generous offer of a _real_ blood-stained lab coat and instead insisted on creating one himself with red paint, even though real blood left to sit for the length of the party would have stained it more garnet than crimson. (The singed spots were authentic, but John didn’t know that.) He claimed he was dressing up as a mad scientist from some television show Sherlock had deleted. He had a pair of goggles pushed up over his forehead, where they’d do no good in the event of an explosion or a spill, but they made his hair stick up in new and intriguing ways.

“You’d still be lying at home on the sofa right now and groaning about your brother’s visit yesterday if I hadn’t dragged you along,” John pointed out.

It was true, but that didn’t mean it deserved acknowledgement. Sherlock huffed. His one concession to fancy dress was a curly-corded earpiece to go with his favorite black suit. John had provided it and then insisted on recording Sherlock saying “Mr. Anderson” over and over until he got it the “right” way and John could send the video to Lestrade. Hopefully Sherlock’s disdain for Anderson showed through. _The things I do to make John happy._

“My brother _is_ insufferable,” Sherlock said, mostly because he couldn’t refute John’s logic. “Forty-eight hours of groaning is hardly sufficient.”

John started to reply, but got distracted mid-sentence by a thirty-something blonde nurse with improbably large breasts crossing the room in front of them. “I’d wanted you to… erhm,” John said. He followed her with his eyes for several seconds until--finally--smiling back up at Sherlock. “Sorry.”

 _Oh, good on you, John._ Sherlock smiled back. “Knew you’d learn eventually,” he said.

“Sorry, what?”

“Deduction. That.” Sherlock waved toward the woman, and the observations started spilling out. “You considered going to hit on the new nurse, but you actually _looked_ and saw the warning signs this time. She started at the clinic a few weeks ago, judging from how she’s still having to work to match faces to names. No hesitation with the male doctors, though: instant recognition. Single, obviously, and hoping for a work flirtation to spice things up. Landing a doctor would be best; the clinic accountant is a distant second choice despite his regretted ble facial hair. Clearly she hasn’t picked up on his ‘type;’ she’s far too thin to catch his interest. Her choice of fancy dress has less to do with imitating a feline and much more to do with its cleavage-enhancing structure. Unprofessional, but she’s attractive so she gets away with it.”

“You deduced that I decided not to chat her up?”

Sherlock raised a quizzical eyebrow. “You’re still standing here, so yes. Hopeless odds have never stopped you from propositioning a woman before.”

“Oi!”

“Oh, come off it. It works often enough to be worth your effort, I’m sure.”

John looked heavenward, as if pleading for patience, but then he shook his head and a goofy grin appeared on his face. “Sherlock Holmes, you are incredible. A idiot and a genius both, but also incredible.”

Sherlock hoped his blush was hidden by the room’s poor lighting.


	2. Chapter 2

2

The large-bosomed nurse didn’t go away, unfortunately. After another twenty minutes of standing with John in the corner and sotto voce deducing everyone he could see, Sherlock had the dubious pleasure of seeing her tack through the crowd directly toward them. Well, toward John.

“Doctor Watson, is it?” she chirped. “I’ve heard so much about you from the other nurses! Odd that we haven’t met at work yet, but there’s what busy schedules get you.” She held out a hand. “Mary, Mary Morstan. New on the block, as they say.”

Sherlock’s disdain for her grew dramatically from the moment she opened her mouth. John was still struck mute and trying not to stare down her cleavage, though, so Sherlock refrained from immediately driving her off and hopefully away from the party for good. John would only berate him later.

John shook her hand. “Just call me John,” he replied. “I’m only Dr. Watson when there’s a patient in the room. Lovely to meet you. You don’t work the early shift, then? I only act as locum when needed, but lately Dr. Patel has been out and I’ve only been at the clinic until about eleven.”

She shifted her hips, the motion drawing attention to her skin-tight cat costume. It was black Spandex with a subtle dusting of silver glitter. If Sherlock ever saw a cat fur-free and glittering like that, he’d assume it had been the subject of a cruel prank and also had extreme alopecia. “Not yet,” she answered cheerfully. “You’re not one of the clinic’s regular doctors, then?”

Sherlock could see from the subtle changes in John’s facial expression that he hated the question. She wasn’t the first to ask it, and John tensed minutely anytime someone accused him of not being “real” doctor. Sherlock spoke before he could argue himself out of it. “He’s as regular a doctor as anyone else at the practice,” he declared, “plus he’s the only one with the flexibility to be called in on short notice. “ _I keep him busy the rest of the time._ No, best not to add that. Despite Sherlock’s warning only twenty minutes earlier, John was showing all the signs of arousal--licking his lower lip, faster breathing, an inability to figure out where to look when so much of the woman’s mammary endowments was on display.

No, John wanted to flirt with her. To impress her. That meant he almost certainly wanted Sherlock to shut up and go away. Even when Sherlock tried his best to keep his mouth shut, every minute he spent in the presence of someone who was not John increased the likelihood that he’d blurt out something and ruin the moment.

“I’ll leave you two alone, then,” Sherlock declared in as happy a tone as he could muster. “I see someone I must speak with. Pardon me.”

He strode off toward the men’s loo. His steps only faltered briefly when he overheard John explaining away his behavior: “That’s Sherlock, my flatmate. Yeah, he’s always like that.”

If John wanted to go on the pull at his own office party, he was more than welcome to do so. Sherlock didn’t need to stay longer, anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

3

John returned to Baker Street later that evening, a bit tipsy and looking thoroughly pleased with himself. He saw Sherlock lying on the sofa in pyjamas and grinned.

“Figured you’d skived off early,” he announced as he took off his jacket and lab coat and smoothed his mussed hair. The goggles and the glowing Erlenmeyer flask had already been consigned to the tote at his side. “Could have answered my texts, though, yeah?”

Sherlock reached out without looking and found his phone on the coffee table. _Oh._ Six missed texts, all variations of “Where’d you go?” and “See you when I get home.” John’s inebriation wasn’t such that his spelling suffered, although he certainly had spent several minutes on each text because of his lamentable typing skills. It was touching, in a way, that John cared enough to spend that time checking in with Sherlock. Pointless, but touching.

“You didn’t look,” John declared. “Sulking?”

Sherlock rolled over and presented his back to the room.

John surprised him by coming closer and running a hand through his curls. “For what it’s worth, thanks for coming to the party with me. You made an excellent Agent Smith.”

That merited Sherlock peeking back over his shoulder, where he was met by John’s fond face. “Who is Agent Smith?” Sherlock asked.

“You’ve deleted him, I’m sure.”

“I assume with good reason.”

“Berk.” John tousled Sherlock’s hair again. He started to withdraw his hand, but Sherlock gripped his wrist before he could turn and go upstairs.

“What’s this?” Sherlock turned John’s hand around so he could better see the blue pen marks on the palm. “Oh. Mobile number. The blonde, I assume?”

“Err, yeah.” John shrugged sheepishly. “She was nice, and I couldn’t really say no.”

 _Of course not._ John rarely turned down any female attention, unless she was an active suspect in an investigation--and even then, he merely put off calling her to flirt until after she no longer seemed likely to murder him in cold blood. Sherlock let go of John’s wrist and curled himself up into a tighter ball on the sofa.

“I wasn’t going to…” John licked his thumb and rubbed it harder, obscuring several of the digits. “Well, it will come off eventually.”

“You’re not going to call her?”

“No.”

 _Oh!_ Sherlock popped up to vertical, albeit with his knees still tucked up near his chin. “That’s smart, John. You’re self-aware enough to know that you lack the willpower to refrain from calling her for long. She’s upfront about her desires--making her chase _you_ is far more likely to result in repeated sexual encounters than you pursuing her. She’s a nurse; she’s got access to your clinic’s records. She can look up your mobile number easily enough. And she will, as long as you string her along feigning indifference.”

John’s smile had faded, but Sherlock pushed onward with the deductions. “A woman like that, earning a nurse’s salary but who can afford those shoes? She’s living beyond her means, clearly. Far beyond. She uses her nursing career as a front to hunt for lonely, rich doctors. She’s got the lonely half correct for you, there.”

“Sherlock!”

“The sex is immaterial for her.” Sherlock took in John’s disbelief. “Oh, she enjoys it well enough, with the right person, but mere sexual prowess isn’t enough to keep her interested for long. If you allowed yourself to look eager she would conclude you were not a high-enough value target. _You_ want _her_ ergo she’s in the position to grant or reject your attentions. If you make _her_ expend effort to pursue _you_ , though, she’ll be so focused on staging an initial sexual encounter she won’t be able to fully evaluate your financial situation until you’ve already had a chance to impress her with your renowned cunnilingus skills.”

“Sherlock…”

“Don’t deny it; your ex-girlfriends’ behavior speaks for itself. As I was saying: once you’ve demonstrated your sexual prowess, she’s likely to repeat the experience with you several times before she moves on. Therefore erasing that number is a good strategy. Go on; you’ll want a wank in the shower before bed anyway.”

John blinked several times, mouth open, but then he nodded decisively and headed toward the bathroom.

It was gratifying to always be right.


	4. Chapter 4

4

Sherlock was lying on the floor of the kitchen when John’s text alert chimed. The generic one, since the phone’s technology-averse owner had no idea how to change it and Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to do it for him. John put down the bowl of pancake batter, but he completely ignored his mobile in favor of digging through the refrigerator for - presumably - the two eggs he needed. Sherlock was ninety-eight percent sure that all the eggs in the carton were still edible, but he still weighed up the probability of being wrong times the chance of John picking the one that might not be versus the surety of John being angry if Sherlock admitted to the details of his most recent egg-related experiment. Ninety-eight percent was good enough, he decided.

“Was that her again?” he asked aloud.

“Probably.” John shrugged. “Who else would it be? Harry never texts, you’re already here, and Greg only reaches out to me when he can’t find you. Are these eggs poisoned, by the way?”

“Of course not.” There was only a two percent chance of one even being contaminated with pig liver enzymes, and those _probably_ wouldn’t cause an adverse reaction even if John did pick the wrong egg. “That was her seventh text, wasn’t it?”

John snorted. “You’re counting? And you gave me such a hard time about noticing the pornographic ringtone Irene left you.”

“Eidetic memory, John. It’s not like I _choose_ to remember your revolving-door stream of vapid girlfriends.”

“Oh? I hadn’t noticed.” John selected an egg and deftly cracked it into the bowl one-handed. No tremor. Sherlock couldn’t help but feel a bit smug about that. “Tell me, which of them do you remember the best? Because if ‘the one with the nose’ is you with perfect recall, I’d love to see how you even made it to university.”

“Boring.” Sherlock waved the thought away with an extra-large gesture in deference to John not being able to see him fully while he was sprawled on the floor under the table. “You’d better be prepared to respond soon, though - from the eight text onward, she’s got a rapidly increasing chance of deciding you’re not worth the effort of pursuit. I wouldn’t want you to lose your opportunity.”

“Ha.” John playfully nudged Sherlock’s shoulder with his foot on his way back to the stove. “Yes you would.”

 _Yes I would._ John didn’t need to know that, though.

John’s mobile chimed again.

“Go on,” Sherlock urged, and rolled to a sitting position. “I can manage to pour pancake batter into a pan while you call her back.”

John stared at him like he’d suddenly grown another head.

“Go,” Sherlock repeated. Normally he hated repeating himself for any reason, but John was - once again - an exception.

“Why do you think…”

“If you don’t answer her now, she’ll start letting it affect her work. And yours.”

John seemed to deflate a bit at that. “Right. What am I saying - of course you’re right. I should… well, I ought to do something to prevent that, I suppose. You really want to make pancakes?”

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him. “You’re hungry, John. You like pancakes. Of course I can cook if that means keeping you happy.”

The look on John’s face was somewhere between fond and astonished, but it melted into a true smile and a shake of his head. “I can never figure out,” he mused, “how you can be so gobstoppingly ignorant of other people’s feelings at one moment and then say things like that the next.”

Wait, was that good? Sherlock _adored_ how John kept surprising him - did it follow that John liked Sherlock to be a surprise too? Or was he just hungry?

“Anyway. Ta.” John passed the spatula over. “You’re right about Mary, of course. I assume she did pull my number from the clinic’s database. I… well, I guess I ought to go make a phone call.”


	5. Chapter 5

5

Sherlock came home from Bart’s with samples of all eight blood types and and an excellent coagulation experiment percolating in his head. His good mood died abruptly upon finding John in the kitchen, drinking a cup of tea and smiling to himself.

“I see you’re not going to nag me into eating supper tonight,” Sherlock declared. “That’s your ‘first date’ shirt.”

“Is it?” John reclined against the counter and took another sip of tea. His RAMC mug, Sherlock noticed, and was momentarily proud of himself for remembering to leave that one in the cupboard the last time he was pulling out containers for his lichen samples. “Go on then,” John prompted. “Deduce me.”

Oh, a direct challenge - nobody except John ever did that anymore. Even Lestrade, although Sherlock hadn’t announced anything about his lack of sex life in _ages._ Again, thanks to John’s influence. Apparently Lestrade, Mycroft, and whatever woman John was currently dating were off-limits.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “The shirt, to start. Actually pressed properly for once - you consider that the difference between ‘dressing up to go out’ and merely dressing nicely for work. You took the time to do it right, hence mild anxiety over tonight. Also indicates anticipation. Your hair is slightly darker than usual, meaning you’ve recently showered and it’s not all the way dry yet. You only shower after work for two reasons: either you’ve had a particularly unpleasant episode involving bodily fluids at the clinic or you anticipate having sex soon. Your ridiculously good mood suggests the latter. Hopeful, then, and optimistic she’ll be receptive to your charms. Add that you’ve brushed your teeth less than ten minutes ago and you’re wearing your nicer pair of shoes even though they pinch your toes a bit, and the conclusion is obvious: a date.”

“I’m never going to get tired of how you do that. Amazing as always.” John hid his grin behind the rim of his mug. “You got it almost entirely correct.”

“Almost?” _What did I…_

John set his tea down, stepped forward, dragged Sherlock down by the lapel of his suit coat, and kissed him.


	6. Chapter 6

+1

By the time Sherlock’s brain decided to re-enter the atmosphere, John had pulled away and was regarding Sherlock with a steady look.

“I’m going to make a deduction,” he announced. “I’m going to say that was your first kiss.” He squeezed Sherlock’s hand, which prompted Sherlock to notice that John was holding it. “Is this okay?” he asked.

 _Okay. Yes. Good._ Sherlock cleared his throat. “Errm.”

“Christ, you look like you’re about to faint. Come on over to the sofa, there we go. Sit.” John folded down onto the cushion beside where Sherlock’s admittedly wobbly knees had deposited him. “Maybe that was a bit abrupt of me, but I thought you’d figured it out.”

Sherlock blinked away the utter shock of _John kissed me!_ “Figured out what?” he managed.

“That I’m not interested in Mary. Or anyone other than you.”

“Oh.” His head was still spinning from the abrupt right-turn reality had just subjected him to, but John was… “You’re interested in me?”

John smiled. There was no derision in it. “Yes, Sherlock. Have been for quite a while, honestly, but it took me until recently to get my shit together. And then you were so invested in setting me up with Mary--”

“I wasn’t--”

“--And I’ve been trying to figure out _why_ ever since that fancy dress party. But it finally hit me: you were being bloody selfless, weren’t you?”

Sherlock drew up short at that. “I’m never selfless,” he said automatically.

“Shove it, you idiot. Yes you are.” John took Sherlock’s hand again and smoothed his fingertips over the knuckles, and somehow the gesture felt more intimate than even the kiss had been. “You talk a good game, I’ll admit, but you somehow convinced yourself that me having sex with Mary would make me happy so you bent over backwards to help me achieve that goal. Whether I wanted it or not.”

 _Ah._ “You like sex,” Sherlock mumbled. “You’re always in a better mood when you’ve ‘gotten some.’ I was just ensuring you’d be more willing to tolerate me--”

“Yeah, nice try, but no.” John squeezed Sherlock’s hand, and even that small amount of contact overwhelmed the homunculus of Sherlock’s awareness. “You’re usually excellent at the deductions thing, but on this particular subject you’re a bit… well. Mary’s been a right pain, to be honest.”

Sherlock frowned. “You did call her back, though. On Monday.”

John shook his head. “I called Sarah to let her know I was distinctly not happy with a fellow employee searching for my personal information in the database--which is very much illegal, despite how often you and your brother like hacking into things--and harassing me at home. She said she’d look into it. Apparently this isn’t the first time Mary has appropriated patient information, it turns out, so the end result is Mary no longer works at the clinic. You don’t have to worry about her any more.”

“Oh.” Sherlock looked down at his lap and swallowed. “Then your ‘first date’ shirt is for… me?”

“Mmm. It won’t be our first time at Angelo’s, but I told him this morning I was going to be bringing you by as a surprise tonight and he vowed to reserve ‘our’ table for us. Don’t be surprised if he’s layered it in rose petals and candles or something.”

Christ, Sherlock could see it. He’d never live it down. If it was what John wanted, though…

“We’re not on a schedule,” John said gently, “but I’m hungry whenever you are. If you wanted to change into something that hasn’t recently been near human cadavers.”

“Oh! Yes. Right.” Sherlock jumped up, belatedly letting go of John’s hand. And then promptly lost his balance as another thought raced through his mind. “John… am I to be ‘putting out’ tonight?”

John grinned. “On the first date? Don’t you want to get to know me first?”

“I already do know you,” Sherlock said slowly. “I just don’t know how to do _this._ ”

John’s expression turned fond. “Yes, Sherlock, you do know me. More than anyone. As well as I know you. And I’m positive we’re both going to have a much smoother time of it if your brain is at least peripherally involved, so no, I’m not going to push. I was thinking once we get to Angelo's I might help you out of your coat, maybe hold your hand under the table in the kind of disgustingly romantic display that nobody but you would ever notice. Our knees will bump together because you have those absurdly long legs and we’ll finish an entire bottle of whatever wine Angelo recommends. Maybe we’ll take a cab back here and unwind together, sitting side-by-side watching whatever nature documentary is on at the time, or maybe you’ll lead me on an all-night citywide tour of your favorite cold case murder locations arranged chronologically covering the last hundred years.” He leaned back against the sofa cushions and interlaced his fingers behind his head. “I’m kind of hoping we might top things off with a long, thorough snog, but that’s going to be entirely up to you.”

Oh, _a long thorough snog_ sounded tempting for the first time Sherlock could ever remember. He shivered. “And after that?”

John looked him over slowly, head to toe and back again. “After that,” he murmured, “it will still be entirely up to you.”

Sherlock turned tail and dashed to his bedroom to change, already rearranging the John wing of his mind palace to make space for the imminent influx of data. This was going to be very, very good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience, everyone! I'll leave you with that mental image to go by :-D


End file.
